


Project Peggy

by KorrohShipper



Series: Project Peggy [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Artistic Steve Rogers, Captain America: The First Avenger, Day 3, F/M, Postcards, Steggy - Freeform, Steggy Week 2019, World War II, steggyweek2k19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 04:15:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19845382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorrohShipper/pseuds/KorrohShipper
Summary: Day 3 (Wednesday): Firsts and Lasts





	Project Peggy

**Author's Note:**

> **Day 3 (Wednesday): Firsts and Lasts**

Steve knew he was going to regret this in the morning.

It’s been five hours since the whistle from outside the men’s dormitory came, the sound signifying it was lights out, and while he suspects that the French military would cut him some slack for staying awake, he had a feeling in his gut that Phillips would be far less understanding about his sleep deprivation in the morning for the debriefing and new assignments.

In his defense, Steve tried to sleep. When the whistle sounded, he tried to shut his eyes close. That didn’t work out. He sandwiched his head in between the mattress and the pillow, to black out the thoughts that raged in his head, but it was useless.

Nothing worked out. He was just too wired to sleep.

In a flash, he rummaged through his sack and produced a healthy amount of materials. In front of his legs, just a few inches ahead of him in his bed were his systematically placed tools—his charcoals in the right, a pack of color pencils to the left, and in front of him sat a stack of blank and empty cards.

Memories of yesterday filtered in his mind and brought a smile to his face. Peggy had caught him in a small, quaint park. From the bench where he sat, it had an amazing and unadulterated view of the Eiffel tower. He already had everything in his grasp—good paper, his charcoal and lead to his side, quality pigments, and a great lighting.

Only, he couldn’t bring himself to get the monument right.

Anything he had conjured up into the paper felt wrong. It was cold and aloof, stiff and out of reach, far too romanticized.

It reminded him of the collection of postcards he once found inside a box filled with keepsakes under the floorboard. His mother explained to him that his father was a soldier in the Great War, and that wherever he was stationed, a postcard would make its way back to her.

Steve crumbled another eraser-marred blank into a ball and chucked it to the far end of his bed, where failed and rejected attempts seemed to pile up into a mountain.

He glared at it, its mere presence greatly offending him.

The bed’s metal frame creaked under his weight as he leaned against the small headboard. Any attempt to recreate the same heart he had approvingly sketched into his iteration of the Eiffel seemed to fall blankly into the same category as the postcards his father sent home— _cold and aloof, stiff and out of reach, far too romanticized._

His face was now buried in his palms and he gave an audible sigh, loud enough to draw a groan from the bunk above. “Sorry, Bucky!” he relayed sheepishly, still engulfed with the task at hand.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the postcards his father sent home. If anything, to a son who’s never met his father, it was something that drew Steve to the man. But whenever he looked at the illustrations, how sunny and bright they portrayed the sights, it felt wrong.

“Keep it quiet, down there! Tryin’ to sleep here, punk.”

Steve carefully took the torch from its mounted perch from the frame of the top bunk, ready to call in for the night— _he looked at his watch and balked. Or morning_ —when he spotted his postcard from earlier.

The sight of it drew a warmth in his chest that melted away the frustration at his artist’s block. It was his sketch from earlier that afternoon. Unlike the postcard his father sent from Paris that Ma Barnes held onto, it didn’t feature the Eiffel as the main attraction.

Peggy was at the center of the cream-colored paper, a smudge of his thumb marked the upper left corner, but it was fine and easily overlooked. The postcard was the perfect example of what he wanted to capture, of what he was unable to recreate: Peggy sat on the bench, eyes fixed on the monument with loomed to the side like an ornament as a war-torn but surviving Paris thrived all around her.

The lead-covered pad of his thumb itched, but with a different urge. The sight he held in his hand, it had heart, and strangely enough, it wasn’t romanticized like the manufactured pictures that his father sent home.

It was different.

And it was different again, when in his hand, instead of the covers that was messily pooled on his lap, was a blank postcard and fixed on the other was around a pencil.

Not unlike the Eiffel, the drew a great open sky. Trees, army barracks and a few buildings framed the sides. In the center, he drew Peggy sideways, her arm drawn back, and her fingers balled into a fist and a smug-looking soldier across her.

He smirked to himself, the memory fresh in his mind and clear as day of how Hodge had disrespected Peggy and, in response, in the most Peggy of ways, she had hit him square in the jaw. Hodge had to hold his head up high to stop the nosebleed when Colonel Phillips told him to fall back in line.

Peggy’s hair flew everywhere, her mouth twisted into a pursed line and it wasn’t the most polished of his works, but of all the rejected sketches he’s done in the span of five hours, it finally felt right.

Steve smiled to himself and sighed contently when he wrote, at the bottom, an inscription that read in bold and capital letters: **MY FIRST IMPRESSION**.

Like the sun that hid behind a cloud, the artistic block was finally lifted at the thought of Peggy and studied the postcards of the Eiffel and their first meeting at Camp Lehigh.

Then, an image of her hair flying all over. She stood by the door of a plane, her head just poking outside the frame. He could still remember how flustered he was when Stark talked about Lucerne and fondue. Heat flashed through his cheeks and he cringed all over.

But he still drew the image, of Peggy's eyes fixed on him as he plunged towards the earth, trying his best not to draw attention to himself. The plane quickly turned back, but he could still remember the faint look of concern on her face, the hint of pride that slowly etched the ends of her lips into a smile. **OUR FIRST MISSION**.

It clicked, finally, why he never did like the postcards his father sent. It wasn’t just too romanticized or too or too manufactured with every blot of pigment overlapping the outlined picture. That wasn’t his problem with the postcards, it was what they represented.

A trail that eventually stopped at the Soisson where his father met his end. It didn’t have heart, it didn’t have a purpose.

Another glance was sent to the postcards and a determined smile made its way to his lips. The heavy weight that he always carried around in his chest suddenly felt lighter as he placed his two finished works aside and grabbed another blank card.

His postcards had purpose.

He had Peggy.

“Hey! Kill that torch, will ‘ya? I’m tryin’ to sleep here!” Bucky’s complaint jarred him out of his reverie, and fittingly, brought another idea to his mind.

The pencil danced and swerved across the paper. He hated the Cyclone, hated how it made his stomach churn to the point where any kind of lunch would want to make its way up his throat, but strangely enough, Steve thinks that it’s the perfect place to take Peggy out for their first date.

At the top of the railing, Steve drew a curbed cart, its jagged corners dulled out by wear. His pencil gently scored the edges, adding fine details of shade as he drew a figure of Peggy, smiling widely at the anticipated rush of the drop while he gripped the safety bar, a small and sheepish expression on his face, but the both of them are wide-eyed for starkly different reasons.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to remember the soft breeze from the sea, the salty tang of the water hitting him full force. They’d have their date there on a hot, bright summer’s day. He imagined that they’d both have a cone of ice cream and a stick of candy floss, maybe even try a carny’s shooting range even if Peggy’s bound to clean the shop.

Steve’s heart quickened as he wrote the short inscription: **THE FIRST DATE**.

The word sent a warm surge through his chest and, at the same time, a cool shiver down his spine. Whatever grin he tried to hide earlier, it couldn’t be fought off now.

One day, he determined, he’d show Peggy the postcards and then we’d go dancing.

Memories of illustrated advertisements for the Stork Club came to mind. Steve never really liked the place, especially so as a child who grew up in the painful grips of the depression where money was tight and when there was really no reason to go dancing at such a fancy-looking establishment.

But now, maybe he could go dancing after all.

Steve tried to conjure up the images of the few dance halls he’s visited as a third wheel to Bucky’s dates, but he focused on the floor. He littered a few couple of pairs dancing in the outskirts of the frame and played with textures for the small curtained stage at the background. They danced in the middle, lost to their own devices, head bent low, eyes only for themselves as the world would melt away: **OUR FIRST DANCE**.

A slow tune came into mind, maybe the band would play Harry James, perfect to sway the night away. He’d wear something simple, like his dress uniform. But Peggy will have a trail of dropped jaws. She’d wear that red dress, the very same she wore from that night at London.

Suddenly, a thought came into mind and he grabbed another card.

He drew himself, shield drawn up, his eyes wide as saucers as the cool aluminum surface was marred by four dents. Howard hid behind a table beside him and he pictured Peggy, a vision before him, as she held a pistol and shot at him point blank.

As much as he wanted to forget the whole ordeal as they’d left it behind in the past, much like the dents that he didn’t want fixed, it was a part of them. Everything they had, even the bad moments, makes it worth the fight and as it tugs at his heart, he’ll hold on to it for as long as she’ll allow him.

So, he writes at the bottom: **FIRST FIGHT**.

He heard a shuffle from above him and bare feet padding against metal bars. Soon, a groggy Bucky Barnes appeared by his side. He peered at the five postcards fanned out on a space. Bucky squinted his eyes at the sight and sighed.

“You’re a goner, Steve. You really fell for this one, haven’t you?”

His only response was grabbing another blank, the pencil planted at his cheek, a thoughtful look on his face.

“You do know that Phillips is gonna bust your chops, right?”

Steve shrugged nonchalantly and continued a new sketch. “It’s worth it.”

A smirk appeared on Bucky’s face. “You mean _she’s_ worth it?” it was a teasing tone, but it clicked just right to him.

“Yeah.” He nodded, any pretense of teasing or playfulness was replaced by the serious heaviness that would make its way to him whenever Peggy is near him. Ever since that line up at Camp Lehigh, and every moment that followed since. “Peggy’s worth it.”

There was a moment of silence between them, as if there was this passing acknowledgement. It only broke when Bucky reached across the bed and took the Stork Club postcard. He was met with a suggestive grin. “You planning to knock it out the ballpark?”

Steve huffed out a bark of laughter, careful not to wake anymore people up. “Lay off, you jerk.”

“No can do.” Bucky mocked seriousness and deposited the card back into his lap. “My pal’s head over heels for a dame, it’s basically my moral duty to be cheeky with you.”

He stared at Bucky, his eyes narrowed in to slits. “Instead of yapping about, how ‘bout you help me out. I can’t figure out what to do next.” Steve grumbled under his breath as he rubbed the butt of an eraser against the paper.

Bucky was quiet for a second. “Do something about lasts.”

Steve balked at the suggestion. “I’m trying to get her to start a life with me after the war, drawing out how it would end isn’t what I had in mind, Buck.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, you see, you got a theme here. Everything you’ve sketched is about your firsts,” Steve glanced at the postcards and he conceded the point. The inscriptions did mark the firsts of what, he hopes, is a life with Peggy should she choose to have him. “Lasts, they’re not always bad. Could be romantic, too.”

“How so?”

Bucky shrugged and stood up from his small spot near the bed. “I don’t know. It’s your brainchild. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to beat these geezers to the showers. Heard the French have hot water running here.”

Steve ducked his head out of the frame and chucked one of his balled-up attempts. “Aren’t you an eager beaver!” Bucky simply laughed at him.

“Not everyone’s _stalwart and steady and true_!” Bucky struggled with the tune of the song as he crowed with laughter.

Bucky soon disappeared into the row of bunks and he was left alone again. He held a blank piece of postcard again in his hands.

His best friend’s words still rang in his head.

There was nothing, at first, that clamored at his thoughts until he remembered her crying over Erskine’s death. He still remembered the day he found her crying on her desk, a small leather journal clutched to her heart— _a gift from Dr. Erskine_ —as she sniffled and tried to brave her way until he took her out. He scoffed, a breath of air pushed off his lungs with a hearty huff. Peggy had an uncompromising relationship with her stiff upper lip.

A sense of pride coursed through his chest. Steve was glad he didn't care much about her protests when he took her out. He set the small bar he took Peggy to, the décor of the dimly lit counter present with a small tin of Quality Street. 

It took her a good moment before she cried, in their corner booth away from all the people. There was a ringing sense of protectiveness that made itself known to him that very night he first saw her cry. A sense of protectiveness that made him take a vow to never let her shed another tear, not if he could help it. **YOUR LAST CRY**.

The familiar form of the Claddagh ring his mother always wore came into the picture. A small text box above formed. Steve paused for a moment. Asking her outright seemed to fall back to his earlier dilemmas. It didn’t feel right.

Instead, he wrote, “Will you let me dance with you for the rest of your life.” Just below it were the words: **MY LAST QUESTION**.

It tugged a familiar string in his heart, and he thought of the day he’d ask her to marry him. He’d imagine her to beam at her and shrug casually as if he’s asked her if she wants to take a stroll for a change before reaching out to put on the ring herself, probably laughing herself off as he presents the finished set of postcards to her, because that's their deal: she'd take her dancing and he'd show her his postcard side-project—

“Project Peggy.” He breathed with a gasp, wide-eyed and scribbled the name down.

Finally, he leaned against the pillow and closed his eyes, feeling a sense of accomplishment rush through him.


End file.
